Be Still, My Heart of Ice
by GloriaNewt
Summary: Constance Hardbroom always stays at Cackles Academy over Christmas... but one Christmas, a visitor turns up out of the blue with some unexpected news... One shot.


**A/N: *waves and scatters snowflakes + glitter everywhere* Hello, I'm back! Life has finally calmed down enough for me to get a little Christmassy one-shot written and uploaded. I've now been part of this amazing WW community for over a year now, so was determined to post a little Christmassy fic now that I'm home from university for Christmas! **

**My sincere thanks has to go once again to the lovely Dissecting Pomegranates for her constant help/support both in writing and in life, for being there for me as a constant source of reassurance and support in the past few months which have certainly been rather difficult at times- so, consider this a little Christmas pressie to say a huge thank you and best wishes for 2013 from me! **

**I don't own the rights to any of Jill Murphy's fantastic characters, not making any money from this etc. **

**Rated T because there's a little teensy bit of bad language (naughty me…) Text in bold italics indicates internal monologue from one of the characters.**

**Hope you enjoy! Please R&R and make my day!**

**xxx**

Snowflakes fluttered lazily through the starry sky, listlessly falling to the frozen earth below. The pointed towers of Cackles Academy stood faintly visible upon the dark blue winter skyline, silent and peaceful, devoid of its usual clatter of excited schoolchildren, the calm aura of the Michaelmas holidays cast like a noiseless web over the ancient castle.

Determined footsteps crunched heavily through the crisp layer of freshly fallen snow, a muffled, compressed crumble, accompanied by an occasional heavy sigh of exertion as the visitor hauled herself up the steep slope to the castle, lactic acid burning acridly in the backs of her calves, her exhausted legs protesting weakly to the mild torture that they were being subjected to. She swayed slightly, unsteadiness caused not only by exhaustion but by the comforting smog of alcohol that was sweeping through her system, numbing her to the worst of the seasonal effects. She paused to collect her breath, summoning her strength for one last effort. She had to reach the castle; she would be safe in the castle.

Inside the castle, Constance Hardbroom shivered slightly, goosebumps of expectation raised upon the back of her faintly trembling slender hands, her warm breath visible in a misty cloud inside the frozen environment of the potions laboratory; pale, milky skin illuminated in the flickering, orange flame that was dancing beneath the cauldron, little clouds of steam dancing merrily across the frothing surface of the brew. She paused to mop her brow, noting with approval the sweet smell of rosemary which hung in the freezing air. She smiled briefly, the faint gesture of approval breaking across her frown of concentration as her desired elixir began to thicken, a faint blue shimmer dancing energetically beneath the surface. She consulted the clock which ticked reassuringly, a heavy resonant tick amidst the silence. She licked her dry, cracked lips impatiently, a subconscious gesture of the raging need that was burning at the back of her throat, an aching want that needed to be sated urgently.

Precisely thirty seconds to wait.

She revelled in the quiet hush of the castle during the Christmas holidays, it was a chance not only to escaped the frenzied hustle and bustle of term, the manic bout of excited confusion that seemed to fuel the actions of most Cackleian students, but also the chance to secretly replenish her diminishing stock of Wide Awake Potion without the prying eyes of Amelia Cackle to observe her. Strictly speaking, the potion itself was a controlled substance by the Witches Guild, inadequate research into the long term side effects of consumption their cited reason for placing careful measures upon the acquisition of some of the rarer components of the substance, however, this had not prevented the resourceful deputy headmistress from using her various connections within the magical world to procure a large quantity of dried Yerba leaves, the key component in the notoriously hard to brew concoction.

"After all," she murmured quietly, selecting a handful of small glass vials from a nearby drawer and removing the cork, "What Amelia doesn't know can't hurt her…"

She extinguished the flame with an impatient swipe of her hand; momentarily plunging the room into darkness save for the eerie glimmer that was sparkling menacingly within the rapidly darkening mixture. She took a deep breath and held it, knowing what awaited her and cautiously sprinkled a handful of the elusive dried dark green leaves into the potion. An acrid smell immediately assaulted her nostrils, a suffocating sulphurous haze of choking smoke, a heavy, bitter miasma rose in a billowing cloud from the cauldron, a repulsive smell that stung her eyes, leaving a trail of blazing tears seeping from her reddened, irritated eyeballs, coughing and spluttering as she wafted the smoke away with frantic flaps of her outstretched hand, her chest beginning to ache beneath the effort of not inhaling the fumes, a tightening band closing around her protesting lungs. Slowly the smog faded, leaving her long-awaited batch of Wide Awake Potion. An entire cauldron-full, this would be enough to ease the burden of the long-nights of term and help to protect her from the far-reaching influence of her past.

"Perfect…" she dipped a small teaspoon into the cauldron, the impatient thirst burning her throat with urgent desire, her mouth salivating in preparation for the vile taste of the miraculous concoction, her trembling hands coated with a faint sheen of sweat, desperate for the foul-tasting miracle that her life's stability was coming to depend on. The spoon met with her lips and she winced delicately at the abhorrent palate, but felt a sudden calm fall over her as she quickly swallowed the liquid, greedily tracing the spoon with her tongue to claim the last drops of the solution, her first dose in over three days, her anxiety had risen to an almost intolerable level as she had waited for the last of her colleagues and students to depart. She nodded her approval- a perfect batch. Reaching out, she took a ladle and prepared to transfer her precious potion to the awaiting bottles.

_***SMASH***_

She dropped the glass vial with a sudden rush of fear and alarm, adrenaline coursing through her veins. She was sure that she'd heard someone, something perhaps within the deserted walls of the castle? Paranoia was prickling at the base of her neck, a bustling swarm of bees buzzing angrily as she hurriedly swiped her hand at the remaining evidence of her illegal concoction, the banned leaves disappearing into oblivion, her heart racing as her keen ears tried to pick out the source of the disturbance. Being caught with such a large batch of a controlled potion would certainly be hard to explain. Intruders within the castle? Trespassers within the hallowed walls of the academy? The unsuspecting invaders were about to meet their match in Constance Hardbroom. Her eyes narrowed to feline slits at she drew her warm cloak fully around her slender frame, a determined glare present upon her pale features as she swept from the room, her keychain jangling angrily at her narrow hips as she strode forwards purposefully, strength renewed by the precious droplets of potion, her leather boots rapping out a strict ostinato upon the frozen stone floor.

Another loud crash sent her rushing towards the main doors. She rounded the corner, her cloak flying out behind her like a bat, her dark eyes flashing with mild outrage, positively radiating enraged loyalty at the potential threat to the place that she loved.  
She paused at the sight of a familiar figure that was hunched on the ground, viciously rubbing its ankle in evident discomfort. The shadowy silhouette glanced up, sighed heavily and muttered a muted swear word upon detecting the presence of the senior witch.

"Could I be of any assistance?" enquired Constance haughtily, extending a slender hand and throwing a filthy look at the woman that was sprawled ungainly at her feet, barely taking the trouble to disguise the frosty contempt in her penetrating tones, "A little earlier than scheduled, Imogen?"

Imogen Drill gritted her teeth, a deep crimson flush of self-conscious embarrassment flooding across her tanned cheeks as she fought to extract her legs from the tangled heap of bicycle that she had fallen over, her stealthy efforts to re-enter the castle rendered useless by the horrendously loud crash, the back wheel still spinning slowly, a steady "click-click-click" of the gears rattling as she tried to re-establish a shred of her personal pride by regaining her footing.

"Bollocks…" she muttered to herself, slurring faintly as she gave up and fell back on to the floor, resting her head uncomfortably upon the stone flagstones, conceding that it would be better to accept the help on hand and glumly allowed Constance to pull her to her feet.

_**Brilliant. **_

_**A perfect end to the perfect week. Discovered in an ungainly heap, returned early from her fantasy skiing holiday thanks to the worst discovery imaginable, and just when she was hoping to hide herself away for a fortnight to nurse her wounded feelings, preferably in the sole company of a large bottle of vodka, she was now forced to lay her bruised pride and hastily fabricated excuses open to the determined scrutiny of Cackle's Academy's answer to Miss Marple, the woman who was the constant thorn in her side and the least likely to show any sympathy to her plight whatsoever.**_

_**Just bloody brilliant. Merry-fucking-Christmas to me….**_

"You positively reek of alcohol, Miss Drill..." Miss Hardbroom sniffed delicately, breaking into Imogen's internal monologue, her nostrils wrinkled in mild disgust at the dishevelled state of her colleague. Her slender hand was surprisingly strong as she hauled the shorter woman to her slightly unstable feet, "I was under the impression that you and Mr Dubois were still entertaining the absurd notion of strapping wooden planks to your feet and hurling yourselves down mountains for a fortnight, not merely conducting a guided tour of the local public houses…."

_**Don't give her the satisfaction… just keep on walking….**_

Imogen gritted her teeth firmly, firmly biting back the insults that she longed to hurl at the black-clad witch, stumbling slightly as she made to snatch up her backpack from the floor, making for the main staircase without a word of thanks or recognition, swaying slightly as she fought to persuade her reluctant brain and lead-laden limbs to work in something resembling coordination.

"And how is the infamous Mr Dubois? Still skiing in the glorious Rockies, or another is he providing a passible impression of another brooding, quasi-alcoholic over indulging in the customary Yuletide festivities?" Constance's voice was silky smooth, but shimmering with a faint edge of malice, as she sized up her opponent.

"Don't mention that-" spat Imogen venomously, her green eyes dark with hurt as she took a slightly miss-aimed kick of frustration at the fallen folding bike that was cluttering the hallway. The resultant searing sting in her left shin a hasty reminder that her delicate flesh would always come off worse in a fight with pedals. She yelped quietly, clutching her leg- that would teach her to leave the wretched bike in the way of the doors…

"Don't you ever m-mention that again…."

Tears were welling up easily in the young sports teacher's eyes as she pushed awkwardly past Constance, wilfully trying to stifle a sob from the ball of emotion that was busily choking her.

_**Not Serge. Not tonight…**_

"You're drunk," snapped Constance coldly, stepping in the way and firmly catching hold of Imogen's arm.

"Here…"

She snapped her fingers and a small vial tumbled into her outstretched palm.

"Drink this…"

Imogen shook her head obstinately, quickly stopping as she felt her vision begin to spin.

"No…" she feebly made to push the potion away and break free from Constance's grip. "No, don't want to… Lemme go…."

"Drink it, Imogen." The order came once again; this time a little quieter and with a little more warmth in the tones as she closed her hand around Imogen's and raised the hand containing the bottle to Imogen's lips.

"Please, I can barely hold a rational conversation with you if you are intoxicated to this level. It's merely "Instant Sober-Up Tonic"- I always keep a bottle in reserve bearing in mind the horrendous instance when Davina and her Mongolian friends decided to imbibe that lethal Arkhi concoction for a week… it took an entire cauldron-full of this to persuade them to climb down from the roof of the West Tower…"

Imogen sighed heavily, rolling her eyes as she uncorked the small flask, catching a faint floral aroma before swallowing the sweet-smelling purple liquid that tasted suspiciously of Parma Violets. She blinked, the hazy world rebuilding itself from a mass of distorted, bleary pixels into a sharp, high resolution colours, the last traces of alcohol being chased rapidly from her system.

"Better?" enquired Constance, raising a thin eyebrow at the faintly bewildered expression on her colleagues face.

"Mmm…." came the vague reply as Imogen rubbed distractedly at her shivering arms, staring fixedly into space as her nightmare regained the horrific clarity of detail which she'd been trying to mask with the comforting crutch of alcohol.

_**Numbness and shock all over again…. I was trying to escape. Damn you Constance, why can't I escape just for tonight?**_

"Imogen," Constance's voice was lower than usual, a concerned look dawning upon her face at the silent undemonstrativeness of the other woman, "Imogen, what on earth is the matter?"

_**Leave me alone, please…. I can't stand this.**_

"I-It's nothing… really…." came the flat monotone response as the PE teacher shook her head in despair, plucking at the stray threads at the cuffs of her grubby fleece.

"There's nothing that I, nor you can do now… my own stupid fault and I've ruined everything…" she broke off with a faint snort of humourless laughter, running a trembling hand through her short blonde hair as salty tears began to pool at the edge of her emerald eyes.

"It's all ruined now…"

"What is Imogen? What on earth happened?" Constance could feel anxiety gnawing at the pit of her stomach, the look in Imogen's eyes telling her that this was news that was highly likely to be unwelcome.

"I-I broke up with S-Serge… just a couple of d-days ago…" Imogen choked, feeling her chest heave as a wave of supressed tears fought for release, her diaphragm spasming.

"Ah. I see." A cold, stiff arm reached out awkwardly and wrapped itself around Imogen's shoulder.

Constance was secretly unnerved by the proximity of the crying woman- she couldn't draw upon her personal reserves of knowledge to deal with this- none of the millions of facts and theorems circulating within her learned brain could come to her rescue now, but instinct and observation had informed her that this act, however unnatural it felt to her was indeed the correct protocol to observe. Imogen shifted slightly beside her, welcoming the somewhat frigid gesture of support. Constance sighed faintly as she stared helplessly down at the sobbing teacher. What a different a few days had made…

Imogen had been at her infuriating best before her departure at the end of term, specialising in a constant, non-stop brand of gloating. Deliberate or not, her infatuated simpering had relentlessly wormed its way into Constance's consciousness, a niggling, vomit-inducing thorn in her side over her own past mistakes, a brutal reminder of her own miserable failings where romance had been concerned. It had been "Serge this" and "Serge that" ever since the return from that infernal camping holiday, the drawling, tanned, athletic adventurer had been Imogen's sole topic of conversation. When he had invited her to join him in a skiing holiday in Canada, Constance hadn't been allowed to escape from the constant lovesick utterances of her delusional colleague, the fawning over every phonecall or letter received from the debonair Dubois, having to face the constant giddy, squealing enthusiasm of her spinster colleagues, reduced to an adolescent glee by Imogen's news, the delighted smiles and whispered discussions of past romantic anecdotes- Davina had proved a surprisingly plentiful source of knowledge on that particular front- that had left Constance feeling completely at a loss, her discomfort in their company only fuelled by the comparative lack of experience in her own romantic past. Forever branded the frigid virgin, intentionally or not, by the others in her company, she had well and truly fallen into the cold, sexless stereotype of the old maid, and at such a relatively young age as well. Perhaps that was all that she deserved, relentlessly deflecting any advances made in her direction, closing herself off until the dwindling flirtations ceased altogether.

She mentally let out a wry chuckle... Broomhead would have been proud indeed…

"I know how hard situations such as this can be…but occasionally an argument is what is needed to highlight when a particular arrangement isn't fully working…" her attempted reasoning trailed off at the look in Imogen's eyes. She was repeatedly clenching and unclenching her fists, her nails, slightly longer than usual but still bearing the tell-tale manicure of the expensive hotel spa, were digging uncomfortably into the soft flesh of her palms, leaving angry red welts in their place that deepened with every stroke.

"It's not quite that simple…." came the forced reply from her right.

"I still love him, with all my heart…. I though he was the one, the perfect man for me…." Imogen paused to roughly push the tears away from the corners of her eyes. "But, then I threw it all away... I thought I could tell him anything and he'd stick by me…. whatever happened…."

"But?" came the patient, calm reply.

"Oh God, this is impossible to say…. I can't even fully accept it myself yet…"

Imogen closed her eyes, drawing in a long, steadying breath for what seemed an eternity, willing herself to allow the words to escape.

_**Reliving it again, the flutter of nerves in her stomach as she walked into the warm chalet room, the fire crackling away in a blaze of orange, the glass of ruby-coloured wine waiting for her on the little side table, Serge lying on the sofa, his dark hair tumbling beautifully over his face in a messy tangle, a lazy smile of contentment on his tanned face as he smiled in greeting… mentally plucking up the courage to tell him of her discovery….**_

"I'm going to have a baby, Constance…." She sobbed finally, her resolve crumbling to ashes.

_**...The look of fear and disbelief upon his face, the process of denial already beginning to take hold... and then the shouting, the "blame game" beginning to start once more, the shattering of their dreams, his violent protest that he didn't want to become a father, that he wasn't in anyway responsible, that there was only one pathway open to her if they wanted to remain together…**_

She sank to the floor, her aching, disbelieving head clasped firmly in her cool hands.

"I-I'm pregnant…."

_**Memories of that beautiful final evening by the lakeside, giggling like teenagers as they waited for the crowd of scouts and schoolgirls to depart to bed in their tents, the crimson glow of the sunset played out over the gently rippling waters, the orange embers of the campfire dying down to a subdued glow, his slow, gentle kisses upon her neck, the scratch of his stubble against her cheek, the feel of his warm fingers as they ruffled her spiky hair, feeling herself surrender to him as his hand slowly worked their way down her body in a gentle caress, then, eventually making love beneath the stars…**_

She looked up, her mascara tracing slowly in watery black lines down her face, looking surprisingly young, her vulnerability starkly to the fore as she gazed beseechingly up at the older witch.

"And I have absolutely no idea what I'm going to do…."


End file.
